In Time's Absence
by Slick Vic
Summary: As the Varden presses for more advantage over the king, other factors begin to wind themselves into place, all intertwined by the hands of fate as the final battle draws nearer. Chapters 9 AND 10 are up!
1. Chapter 1

The edge of town was a flurry of activity, the jangles of moving carts mingling with the combined roar of hundreds of excited voices. A smile twitched onto her face, a quick twerk of the lips as she quickened her pace as warm rays of sun peaked through the thin clouds above them, helping chase away the chill of the breeze that swept from the mountains and played with her long skirt. She felt a certain joy that had evaded her for the last few months, and with its return she felt almost giddy with excitement. The happiness was infectious, even the wind had contracted it as it whipped along causing the leaves in the streets to dance in its embrace. The melodious tinkling of wind chimes brought an even wider smile to her face as she entered the large field on the edge of town and she hefted her basket up to a more comfortable place on her hip. A burst of sound erupted behind her and, in alarm; she turned her head to face it. The lines of worry vanished; however, as she recognized the excited squealing of children as they chased each other into the trading grounds. One of them bumped against her basket and she called out in mock disturbance as they giggled and squealed their apologies before disappearing behind a cart filled with various leather thongs and strips.

"Channon!" She turned towards the call, thin lips pulling up in a smile as she recognized the familiar tenor of her brother's voice.

"Arthin!" His brown eyes glinted with mischief as they neared and hers, matching in color, narrowed playfully.

"It's been too long, sister. This caravan seemed to have slowed over these seasons."

He embraced her in a hug, warmly embracing the family he had missed dearly on his journey.

"I know you Athin," she chastised playfully as she drew back. "If it were up to you your travels would never end, your horse would never rest as you press forward into your next epic adventure." She used elaborate hand gestures, mimicking a cherished memory of their childhood as she laughed, his full tones mixing with hers for the moment.

"Aye, and epic they have been." He lifted the wicker lid to her basket and exclaimed gleefully. "So much! How have you managed such a crop from this worn dirt?!"

She smiled, cherishing the moment when she could finally share with someone her secret that had been discovered in the eve of spring.

"Tea." She smirked, the wry play of her lips goading him to respond.

"You jest."

"No, I speak the truth!" She gestured at the basket. "I spilled three kettles of tea in one area of my crop two springs ago." She began, laughing at his confused expression. "And that batch grew the largest ears of corn I had yet to see. So the first day after the thaw a poured tea across my lands." She lifted the basket lid again and pulled a ripe tomato from the interior. "And lo!"

He cracked a larger smile; teeth exposed as he snatched the fruit from her and stole a bite.

"You!" She snarled playfully. "Arthin, you are lucky to be my kin, otherwise your cheek would have met the soul of my sandal!" She playfully pointed a finger at his face, which had just filled with his smile even more from her threat; a dribble of juice ran down his cheek before he hurriedly wiped it with his sleeve.

They shared another laugh before he wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

"Come, I have much to tell you while you sell your herbal goods."

* * *

The crunching of gravel approached and then, after a quick span of time, faded, the marching battalion passing through the wide street below the open window. The sound did not go unnoticed by the stooped figure at the desk, aged fingers brushing through course brown hair that was speckled with harsh grey that exposed his age. He heaved a sigh, exasperation evident in its length and volume, before standing to quickly slide the glass pane shut. The force of the action led to a sudden flurry of scratching noises beside him as a pile of scrolls fell to the floor.

Jeod repeated his actions, running his fingers through his hair and sighing, before stooping down to rifle the pile into a rough stack before returning to work. Map after map was filed into the stack, old parchments filled with broken promises gazed upon once again before being buried.

He paused however, eyes scanning over a certain map that matched the one he had been studying before his outburst. He slowly made his way back to his desk, subconsciously winding through the various piles of books and scrolls before placing himself down before his desk. The images were the same, exactly the same, and yet, it drew his attention still. He felt the thrill of discovery lingering tentatively out of his grasp, frustration threatened to return, having succeeded before in his annoyance towards the distractions, but he suppressed it, gazing still at the two almost identical maps of the King's city.

"Uru'Bean" he read aloud, disdain evident in his voice as he felt the filthy name hang in the air. Any mention of it in these times was soon followed by a worried silence or hastened change in topic, no one wished to dwell on the fortified city that housed the feared Galbatorix and his dreaded black dragon.

His eyes snapped back to the word, comparing the two titles scrutinizing before excitement took grasp over his features. He flipped the parchment over, glancing at a number in the top corner that had been scrawled in his spidery handwriting.

"1,207" He rushed over, eyes sweeping over a row of almost identical leather bound books. Each bore the same title, but differed in age and wear. After a few seconds he found the one he had been searching for a wretched it from the shelf. Thumbing through the pages, Jeod almost seemed to vibrate with excitement as he rushed through differing scenarios in his head. He reached the page that corresponded with the number on the map.

"_1207_

_Map discovered in the home of a merchant in Gil'lead. He claimed at first to have come across it in his travels. I soon found that it had been given to him by his mother who was once a maidservant in the King's Castle. After further goading Thermic revealed that she had stolen it from a general whom she had an affair with. It took much pushing to get him to move on in his drunken stupor but he finally opened up to tell me that she had given it to him on his death bed, whispering the words. "It keeps a dreadful secret" in his ear. He claims to have not know what she meant by the fact, but suspects that she had eavesdropped on her liaison while in a meeting of sorts. _

Schemes and trickery wound themselves around in his brain as he returned to his seat before the two maps and began the task of decoding whatever message they held.

"You know…" She stated, pouring the steaming liquid into two clay mugs. The steam rushed up onto her face, merely faint warmth as it dissipated into the air.

Her brother watched the sunset from the main room, a smile on his lips as the horizon slowly darkened into another night. She approached; smile matching his before she placed the mug before him on the iron table. As she sat down she continued:

"I don't understand how you can expect me to believe you."

He turned from the window and stooped to reach for the tea before him.

"Aye, I don't either, but what I say is true."

It was so hard for her to wrap her head around, mind struggling to imagine such a sight.

"Oh Arthin, are they as beautiful as old Brecrov used to tell us?" She felt as a child; wonder filling her mind as she gazed at her older sibling. He struggled, a strange frown on his face as he contemplated what to say. She felt anxious, hope filling her just by the mere thought of their existence.

"I.." he stammered. "I attempt to find the words that can explain them. Brecrov…. Did not do them justice."

He looked up at her face.

"Oh Channon, to see her fly above us, blue as a precious stone and casting a faint shadow as the sun graced itself to flow through her wings…." He cracked a smile, and yet, it was hued with a somber attitude that she had rarely seen before his adulthood.

"The Dragon is a hope, sister. She and her rider are a way to escape the war." Channon suppressed a flinch at the word. That word was not thrown around lightly in the village, for the very memory brought pain and worry to those who had lost or were awaiting the return of a husband, brother, or son.

Arthin watched his sister scrutinizing, wondering how she could cope with an empty house. They both knew what he had said was treachery, knew that if any news came to the Empire that he would be sentenced to some unholy punishment, but that seemed not to matter. His Brother-in-law was out fighting against that 'hope', forced into leaving his forge and family behind so as to fight a war he didn't believe in. It was not right, and it troubled Arthin to see his sister as perturbed.

"You should have seen Shale!" He exclaimed, continuing on as if the long silence between them hadn't existed. "He cowered like a rat before a terrier!"

She cracked a reluctant smile, thankful towards the change of direction

"You still ride that old mule?!"

He chuckled before mocking affrontation.

"She takes me wherever I need!"

"If you wish to get there in twice the time!"

Conversation followed in this manner well into the night, the two siblings enjoying the company of each other as they ignored their cold mugs.


	2. Chapter 2

**So, the first chapter is out of the way and, in hindsight, I realize that I probably should have done this in that first entry but…blah. It's here now.**

**This was just a spur of the moment deal at first, but I'm really digging this whole process so I'm going to try to update at least twice a week. I've already got my 4****th**** or 5****th**** chapter written out, I just need to fill in the blanks between those so that the plot doesn't go bungie jumping off the Grand Canyon.**

**Oh yeah, Eragon is Created by Chistopher Paolini, NOT ME, and I did not invent the world. **

**~Vic**

**P.S. Oh ya ya, Thank'ee much for the three favorites and the review, they totally made my day yesterday. ^.^**

A Page ran through Feinstar, young legs pumping hurriedly as he whipped past the general disarray of an army's camp. The smell of horse came and went as he ran past a stable, oblivious to the dull curiosity that his haste brought to the animals as he passed.

The boy delighted in his mission, excitement coursing through his veins as he sprinted. He was going to meet the _Shadeslayer! _ Just the name made his push himself farther, haste made even more important as he rounded the corner to catch the iridescent glint of Saphira's scales.

Saphira, who had been watching lazily since the boy turned the corner, lifted her head as he drew nearer. She noted the way that he moved, frantically, and momentarily grew alarmed. A warning rumble formed deep in her throat before she suppressed it, not wishing to alarm as he read his Book-Of-Many-Pages. As she lowered her head back between her paws she strengthened the connection between Eragon and herself. She felt his hunger; the thirst for knowledge driving is eyes over each sentence with care. She shared his desire and a rush of understanding passed between them. "_Any one of these pages can tell me about the stone." _ She hummed an agreement and she felt his muscles lift up in a smile.

"_I know, Little One."_

She turned her attention back to the boy, finding amusement in his rush now that she sensed his excitement. The hatchling drew nearer and shifted her body, he would have a better view of her vast stomach and beauty now that she had and basked in the admiration the that boy, no doubt, had expressed upon seeing the most beautiful being in Alegaesia.

Taking note of the parchment that the hatchling clutched in his hand she stood, stretching as if she was a werecat, jaws opening to display her array of large, lethal teeth. A strangled cry reached her and she snapped them closed, large cobalt eyes honing in on the sound as her muscles rippled with tension.

The tension vanished immediately as she stifled a rumbling chuckle from her throat.

"_Eragon, I've frightened the Hatchling who's here to see you.." _Smoke rose in lithe tendrils from her nostrils as the boy scrambled from his feet, having stumbled when laying eyes on her vicious teeth.

She watched the young one tentatively, marveling in how frail he appeared when he thrashed about in order to regain his footing. She turned her head towards the door of the cabin when it opened to reveal her frazzled, rather pale rider. His appearance worried her, the lines on his face expressing the grief that the shared for The-Ones-They-Had-Lost. The chilling realization that they were alone had revolved around their shared thoughts for these last weeks, always lurking in the shadows of their mind whenever they carried out their duties or brief boughts of freedom. Her scales, in their beauty and hardness, had no means of showing the loss they had shared.

"Argetlam!" The boy squeaked as he stood up again. She spun her head around to observe him again. She deemed him a reasonably promising specimen, as far as humans go, but could be prepared to a flighty horse in mannerisms rather than a man.

"I have a note from Lady Nasuada !" He chirruped and Saphira let a low rumble of amusement escape, as he hurriedly trusted the summons towards Her-Eragon. The Hatchling had puffed his chest out in an attempt to regain some pride. Humans were just too much.

"_Saphira, he's just a boy."_

"_Humph, a clumsy, overexcited boy."_

Her rider turned back to the Hatchling, Saphira rewarded with a tinge of amusement in that peaked through the grief and mild chastising that had devoured his thoughts before.

"Thank you, Ha-"

She was even more amused and Eragon wrinkled his forehead in frustration. In the past few weeks he had become like a hermit of some sorts, locking himself up into his Pile-Of-Logs shelter or asking her to fly above the foliage away from other humans, he had even secreted himself away from his Elvin Guard. He hadn't been social enough to remember not to call other humans things such a "Young One" or "Hatchling" which was what he had just caught himself doing.

"_Don't feel so pleased with yourself, it was a simple mistake"_

"_Aye"_ She replied wryly before suddenly becoming serious. _"And don't you dare attempt to blame such a mistake on me, Eragon. You are to blame for your absence"_

She knew that he could have argued, for she felt it through their connection, but he refused. The memories of the past week were not something that either of them wished to relive in the present, especially when they had a manner of importance at their fingertips.

"Habrith!" Eragon's attention had strayed for the few seconds in which their conversation had taken but now realized that the Messenger had assumed that Eragon had vaguely known his name. A smile cracked on his face, an image Saphira had seen from him in the company of others for quite some time now, and she grew a faint appreciation for the…twitchy Hatchling.

"Yes, Habrith. Thank You…"

They watched, both fully amused and curious as to what the boy, or Habrith, would do with the obvious dismissal. He twitched, weight sifting back and forth for a few rotation s before he bowed, muttered something in a high pitched mumble, and jetted off back from where he came.

"_Habrith"_ The name seemed vaguely familiar to him and Saphira and he both rolled the name around in their memories as Eragon situated himself in the saddle. The familiar thrill of flight helped jog his memory and he pointed out;

"_Oh yes, Habrith! He's __Jörmundur's boy! We met him briefly after the Battle of the Burning Plains."_

"_Stop that…" _ Saphira warned, sensing her rider's thoughts begin to spiral back down into depression at the mention of the first confrontation between their new enemies. She was satisfied as he withdrew from that line of thought and so she added onto their previous trail in order to goad him even farther away from the dangers of his mind.

"_We should mention his boy's bravery and dedication when we se him next."_

Eragon agreed, it would do nothing but good for their relationship that had been mildly strained since Nasuada's inauguration.

"_That seems like so long ago…"_

"_Aye, that it does, Little One."_

"_What have we been thinking, pledging to all these ra-"_

"_Cease such thoughts, Eragon. We do what we must, doubting yourself leads to failure."_

She landed next to the Mansion where Arya had slain Varaug and felt Eragon quiver as he hit the ground. Dark tendrils of magic still desecrated the air, faint after the trails of time, but still exisisting all the same. She knew he wished to do something about it, but she urged him to continue on, the message had said to make haste.

Jörmundur drummed his fingers on the table, eyes flicking back and forth between the doorway and the Leader of the Varden, Lady Nightstalker. The stink of Urgals filled his nostrils and he suppressed the urge to wrinkle them in disgust, he and Nasuada had already gotten into enough arguments about the horrid creatures, and she knew full well of his opinion of them. In another case, he had learned to respect Nasuada as a leader, even if he still possessed a string of bitterness that she had gotten the title instead of him, and knew when to keep his opinions to himself. Besides, he wished to know what Jeod had discovered in his studies, a delay such as a complaint would bring nothing but trouble towards him and the rest of the camp.

He almost huffed, news traveled so fast when the army was cooped up for so long in a confined space, such as this city, and the truth can find itself to be warped in the most mysterious ways. No doubt there would be rumors flying around that he slayed one of the hideous things during the meeting, which would put him and the Varden into an uncomfortable position.

And so he waited, impatience, disgust, and acute annoyance battling over control over his brain. He finally settled himself on watched the scholar, Joed. He paced to and fro; ignoring the sharp looks he received from the council. Jörmundur noted with a twitch of amusement that King Orrin looked as if he were about to leap from his chair; Joed's activity was definitely affecting him. He began to scan his way down the table, observing people's reactions and degrees of patience. Nasuada, at the head of the table, was mostly as still as a stone, but he knew her too well to not see through her ruse. She was constantly glancing towards the open window, eyes scanning the horizon for any trace of Rider and Dragon. Arya sat beside her, emerald eyes stony and unforgiving as she stared, motionless out of the window that was directly opposite her on the wall. Orik, who sat on Nasuada's other hand, would have, had he been taller, blocking her field of vision as he picked his fingernails meticulously, obviously unperturbed by the setbacks.

Just as he lost interest in his surroundings, a sudden burst of air buffeted the back of his neck. He jumped, spinning around to face the opponent as his hand zipped to his hilt reflexively. He relaxed, however; when he realized that he was staring into the face of half of the person they were waiting for. –He says half because it is common knowledge to the council that Eragon and Saphira are incomplete without each other. Their constant finishing of each other's conversations had set his nerves on end on more than one occasion- He thought he saw a glint of mischievous delight in the Dragon's eyes as he turned away, refusing to blush or feel embarrassed for his actions. He was the military's main planner, was he not? It shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone that he reacted in such a manner.

His silent brooding, which he refused to admit to, was interrupted by Nasuada.

"Eragon, finally you come." She gestured to the seat next to Arya –opposite himself- and Jörmundur swore that he saw a flash of emotion cross over the riders faced before complying, he couldn't blame the boy, Arya was not his first choice of people who's company he would desire to keep.

"I was afraid our messenger was somehow apprehended."

A flash of anger jolted through his mind. Why would she assume that his son, his own flesh and blood, would fail at a mission that he had been assigned? He forced himself to calm, he could have sworn that he heard a low rumble from Saphira behind him, and resigned himself to nurse and care for his personal pride on some other time.

"As you may know," She continued on without seeming to notice his emotions and counted himself lucky that she had not noticed his slight loss of control. "I have assigned Joed the task of filtering out any way into Uru'Baen"

The room was silent save for the shrill whistling that Saphira's breath made as it passed through the rough scales on the edge of her nostrils.

"I do not pretend to understand his work and, in my vague understanding of the art of discovery, wish for Joed to speak of it himself so that he may relay his findings without causing unnecessary confusion."

The scars on her arms glistened as she motioned for Joed to take over the meeting and a twinge of pride, annoyance, and respect flashed through him. –As it did every time he was reminded of her sacrifice.-

Joed bowed his head toward Nasuada, his mannerisms almost condescending in his evident haste to share his findings. "Thank you, My Lady"

Everyone's intensity had increased as they directed their attention towards the older man.

"I've come to believe that," He riffled through his satchel and removed two maps, proceeding to smooth them out onto the table in front of us.

"The difference between these two maps holds the key to our breaching of the city"

Nasuada, who had known of Joed's theories before the meeting, was the only one who did not draw themselves forward to study the map, Jörmundur himself leaned in, greedily gazing at the two rolls of parchment. Why….they were identical, where they not?

"What be the meanin' of this, Joed?" Jörmundur did not look up from the maps as the dwarf beside he spoke what they all, -well he couldn't speak for Arya, she never had the same thoughts as humans.-

Rubbing his beard with his hand he narrowed his eyes at the maps. "Aye, Orik I agree…" Just then his eyes caught sight of a difference. "But this one" He pointed to the map closer to Nasuada. "But the drawings are of two different qualities. The detail is almost non-existent in this one."

He looked towards Joed, wondering what he was coming to. "But what would that tell us?"

He noted the lack of pride or chastising that the old man possessed and deemed this man respectable. There were plenty of men who would chose to use their knowledge to cast others down, but this one mere teemed and buzzed with the thrill of discovery. His eyes glistened with an arcane madness of sorts as he gazed down at the two scrolls.

"Exactly. This is what brought me to observing it more. The first scroll was obviously not created for the sake of following! The proportions completely wrong at times!" He pointed at a certain street that ran through the middle and Jörmundur nodded his agreement.

"Then I noticed that certain descriptions and names had been spelled incorrectly. "Eragon made to interrupt him, but Joed held up his hand.

"Please, let me continue. I then ran it through all my code cracking devices that I knew of. Of course, that was before I realized that the King, in his wicked cleverness, would have wished for his own to be created."

Joed ran his fingers through his course hair before continuing.

"It took some time but I think I have devised a solution to the riddle. At the time of it's creation, Galbatorix still possessed three dragon eggs that, at the time, were secured in his own hiding. The code revolved around the number three. There were many more numbers involved, thirteen for The Forsworn as well as the addition of important dates in his past.

I also found a strange cycle that revolved around the three numbers one, five, and seven. Of course, that just could be pertaining to the Forsworn because of the way the three numbers add up, but it seemed different. The process was-"

He paused, smiling an apology towards Nasuada who had raised her hand for his attention.

"My apologies, the excitement has sent me rambling. What I was meaning to say was that the code cracked into a description of a secret passage that leads into the castle from an underwater cave that resides in the last few leagues of the Ramr River.

The anticipation in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Why, that's great news!"

Jörmundur glanced around the table to see what other people's reactions were and found that the only face that expressed his excitement was that of Orik's.

"Yes, I agree, but…"

The Rider opposite him looked perturbed, brow furrowed.

"But wouldn't Galbatorix know of the tunnel and have it heavily defended?"

Joed frowned. "That is a risk that we must take, but my sources and logs suggest that Galbatorix never had the opportunity to lay eyes on it before it was stolen. According to my rough timeline, the point in which it was stolen also corresponds with an unexplained attack on a noble family in Kuasta from the King"

A ring of silence surrounded before them as they each contemplated their newly found glimmer of hope.

Nasuada cleared her throat and they all directed their attention towards her as she prepared to speak.

"Thank you Joed, I can speak for all of us in saying that your efforts have lead to your earning of our respect. But, now that we know of this chance, we must use it with deadly accuracy."


	3. Chapter 3

Arms burdened with various tack, Channon intently watched as Arthin prepared the old family horse for his next trek. The caravan bustled around them; gaudy merchandise and signs disappearing from view as their owners carefully packed them away to safety.

"You're lucky all you need to prepare is Shale." She pointed out as she watched a tent collapse onto the soft earth. The two children of the family hurriedly began to pack it, laughing and rolling over the sewn together hide to prevent pockets of air from being trapped inside. She smiled as they giggled and raced along the hides, small body's rolling and spinning wildly as their parents prepared the tack for their own two horses.

"Aye, being a storyteller has all the perks." He took the blanket from her arms and carefully draped it over the stallion, smoothing out any wrinkles before turning and smiling to his sister. Her face, so young and unchanged, was melded into a combination of strength and sadness. He knew naught of her plight and worries, for they had, upon some unspoken agreement, refrained from speaking of any hardships they had experienced. Their time together was to be spent in happiness and lethargy, not common consoling and woe.

And yet, a small part of him wished that they had at least spent a portion of the time they had to find themselves through the pouring out of worries. He felt so disconnected even after the five glorious days; four had passed since the Varden's council meet leagues upon leagues away, and the reality that his sister, though same in more ways than one, had changed into a woman without him being there to notice it. The life of a storyteller, of a traveler, had been is dream since he was but a mere boy who knew naught of the world except for what Brecrov had enlightened him too. The words, spun into intricate tales, had sparked a desire in him to see the world and discover its mysteries. He had decided, after his turning of age, to become the hermit and live life without boundaries of family and land. It had been brilliant, the thrill just as he expected, but also disheartening. Hardship could be read on the face of humanity in these times, casting a shadow over any bought of happiness that lasted for too long.

Some of this sadness, he observed, had begun to fester into his sister's eyes, the strain of caring for herself, of worrying for her husband off fighting in a meaningless war slowly eating away at the carefree joy that had once sparkled deep in those eyes. The transformation had, the others told him, taken some time. The six months in which she held down the house on her own had only added to the strain on his sister.

"Channon."

Ah, here it was. The inevitable desire to express those few consoling words that had hung before them throughout the visit. She had known he yearned to speak them, but her own selfishness had suppressed them, not wishing to hear the obvious even if it meant his happiness. Her brother had finally begun to succumb to his desires manly desires, to the pride that told him that he, the older, wiser, man, should give his younger, womanly sister his advice and blessings.

She cast him a smile, sadness and amusement both wrapped into the play of her lips as she heaved the saddle onto Shale before he could take it from her. The distraction proved enough.

"You can lift?!" He sounded astonished and she couldn't be upset with him for it. For one, she hadn't been able to the last time they had been together, and the second was that it was how he had been raised. Their father had been one of old values and had frowned upon any woman doing hard labor, such as tacking a horse.

"Aye, farming is not for the thin blooded." She witnessed his face turn to amusement.

"If only I had discovered this before." His mischievous smirk worried her slightly.

"I would have challenged you to a wrestle."

Her laugh, clear and pure as it had been the whole week, rang from her throat and brought a smile back to his brother's face. He had been a fool, thinking to almost stain their pleasant meeting with a sorrowful departure.

"I believe you would have bested me still, brother."

The two embraced and, in this gesture, expressed all the unsaid things that each thought for the other, for it wasn't only Arthin that worried over her kin. She slipped some coin into his saddlebags, having earned more than enough to feed both her and her husband when he return, thinking herself clever, she released her brother from the embrace and smile at him, sweeping the brown bang from his forehead in a motherly gesticulation.

"I don't need it." He said, adamantly squared against her as he turned to take the money from his bag.

"Neither do I!" she said quickly. "I want you to have it."

"But I don't need it. You keep it, the caravan sees to me, I am well cared for."

"Well, I want you to take it. Do it for a tired old woman."

"You're not a year older than six and twenty!"

She laughed again, not quite a clear and innocent as earlier, but still one that carried happiness.

"Well, I admit to that, but still Arthin, I wish for you to take it. If you do not need it, use it to by something that reminds you of your dear sister for you to keep close."

Arguing would do no good: he knew that she was as stubborn as the mule she used to harvest, and he begrudgingly complied with her wishes.

"You." He said to her, nudging his finger up and down while pulling his face up.

"You are just as manipulative as mother."

She chuckled. "I don't know what you could possibly mean."

He shook his head and mounted Shale, the horse flicked its ears back in annoyance and Channon patted its side, meaning to console it, before a quick brush of lips pressed onto her forehead.

She looked up at him accusingly and he gave her a rough smile in return.

"What can I say? You are like our mother, yes, but I have become our Pa."

"That you have." She said playfully before patting her brother's calf.

"That you have. When you visit home, be sure to give my greeting and love to Mother."

"Are you kidding? As soon as I get there she'll be asking me of you, I won't have a choice!"

All around them the caravan began to head out, wagons and carts grinding into motion as the leader motioned for them to head out.

"Safe Travels."

"and Safe Keeping for you!" He grasped her hand in his for a moment, squeezing it lightly before releasing her. She backed up, and watched for a minute as he guided their old family horse into the steadily forming line of wagons, horseflesh, and humans. She caught herself wishing to be part of it, to be leaving this empty home and common city. Her brother's adventures acted as poison. She yearned for freedom from this prison life had locked her inside, but the desire to see her husband return, to have a small semblance of a happy, normal life brought her back to her fleeting senses.

And yet, as she watched her dear brother disappear with the caravan, she made a promise to herself that she would buy herself a horse, one that could run far away, just in case she ever need it.

Little did she know that this decision would be made just in time, for fate's tolling bell had begun to ring, in perfect synchronization with the approaching footsteps of a marching cavalry that, unnoticed as of yet, were making their way towards the very field that she had just turned to walk from.


	4. Chapter 4

Brass buttons glinted in the fading light as a man walked down through the nearly empty streets. His gait was laced with the authority that his uniform and mission provided, but his eyes revealed the chilling nervousness that he tried to push away from his thoughts. Anxiety hung in the air as he marched ahead, his grisly assignment known by those he passed. He tried to ignore the sharp sudden movements in the windows that he passed by, flashes of distraught faces seemingly choreographed on both sides. There were also those who faced him squarely, chins held strongly in defiance to his message as he passed. All these faces had on thing in common, however, the heavy sighs of relief that followed in his wake and the gentle placing of a finger between their eyes as they whispered prayers to the heavens. This was what sent chills down his back, for those actions were fitting in his situation. He was the angel of death.

Channon noticed the gleam in his eyes, the way they flickered from face to face as they leaned from windows. She was one of those who gazed from their window, heart hammering against her ribs as she waited. Her fear escalated with each house that he passed, gripping her heart and mind as she soon developed a thin film of cold sweat on her brow. A chill wind from the East began to slowly whistle through the streets, fittingly carrying the sickly sweet, metallic scent of death to all those who lived there. The war was fast approaching.

The soldier glanced back down at his mission form, lips soundlessly forming numbers that seemed familiar to her. It could not be, not her, not him. She kept her silent vigil, silently; weakly, clinging to false hope. The regular sounds of life soon filtered back into the air around her, tinkling of pots and scraping of spoons mixed with the giggling of children and braying of ass. Life was quick to forget, to adapt, the time spent in that spasm of fear had been wasted, chores still needed to be done, only the grieving could dwell on the presence of surreal truth.

The young man glanced at her home, cold reserve forming over his features as he braced himself to break the news, as was his duty. She heard a moan from somewhere on the street, the soft tone rippling with relief as the owner performed the ritual of thanks. She watched as her neighbor flinched at his approach, her daughter dropping the flowers she had been picking to gap at the polished soldier. This was the moment, anticipation balancing on the blade of a knife as her took the first step that led him in front of her home. Each step he took seemed longer than the previous, cruelly drawn out for the purpose of stringing her along. It was misery, watching those steps. Time snapped back, quickly spanning back into the present as those polished boots left the dirt ground and felt the soft cushion of grass. Channon did not flinch, however, as the uniformed soldier stepped into the threshold of her and her husband's yard, she merely tightened her grip on the empty mug before her, steam billowing from the kettle on the fire beside her.

The heat provided her with the momentum she needed to make her way towards the door, stony reserve creeping into her features as she braced herself for the worst, for the news that no one wanted to receive. Her hands shook, betraying her nerves, as she reached for the key that hung on the wall. A strong knock rang through the cabin, each tolling like the church bells of a funeral as she stumbled with the ring of bulky, iron keys. She managed them into the lock, and opened it, features as stiff and emotionless as the soldiers.

"Mrs. –"

"Is he dead?" she whispered softly, one hand still resting on the brass handle that he had made two years before leaving.

"Excuse me?" the soldier asked, the crimson of his uniform brought out by the paleness of his face as he gazed into the eyes of grief.

"Is he dead?" She asked again, louder than before. Her hard brown eyes bore into the youths. He could be no older than Seventeen.

"Is my husband dead?"

The Soldier grimaced; this was obviously not how he would have chosen the situation to play out. He opened his mouth, green eyes stern before his face softened, he supposed that she could demand him the small desire to be in charge of the situation, to be the one who brought the news upon herself, not merely a victim but a partaker of events.

"Yes."

He expected her to groan or suddenly become weak at the knees as others had. He had braced himself for the harsh cry of mourning, but he found that her stony gaze perturbed him more. She merely nodded, a calm understanding melding into her features before she thanked him curtly and closed the door, lock clicking softly as she turned the bolt.

The soldier remained in front of the house for a long while, fighting with himself as he struggled to find what he should do next. He did not know what course of action to take. Should he leave or stay? He was supposed to deliver the notice to her, how else would she know to pick up her husbands belongings form the camp? But something held him back, he did not wish to gaze into those cold eyes again, the mere thought sent shivers down his spine, harsher and stronger than any he had felt before, so he simply bent to the frame of the door and sifted the rough parchment underneath.

He promptly turned his back from the house and made his way from the yard. He cast one backward glance at the house before continuing on, the image of the woman, haunting gaze directed up at the sky from her kitchen window branded into his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

_Loss_

_Pain_

_Anger_

_Resentment_

_Pity_

_Loneliness_

_Confusion_

_The pattern was constant, revolving around his thoughts as he watched the sun set behind a vast horizon. The stink of death still remained after the days that had passed, left behind by the vast pile of bodies that weakly smoldered on the opposite side of the city._

_Processions_

_Numbness_

_Loss_

_Pain_

_Helplessness_

_He walked alongside Saphira the burn in his arms ignored. It was his duty. He had buried his father, then merely a teacher, and now he buried his last mentor, his only semblance of family. Memories of the true service rang through his thoughts, Saphira's mournful peal melding once again with the somber beauty of the Elves' Song for the Dead. The chill air pulled at his hair, sweeping the warm eminence of Saphira's scales along with it to his skin rippled with gooseflesh._

_Need_

_Desire_

_Insecurity_

_Pain_

_His gloved hands were all that remained warm on his body, tear streak cheeks drying in the chill. A rumble of support was emitted beside him and he made the last few steps to his dead Master. He continued on, only wishing for the end to come of this day. He lifted on hand from bellow his responsibility and lifted the thick cloth that had been draped over it. _

_The golden Eldunari caught the light, rough edges casting shadows over others while the warmth that had been preserved by the sheep skin rushed out to caress his face. In that moment, the comfort was lost, for the sight of his mentor's cold body, since melded and healed since his death, was too much for him to bear. Saphira released a soft cry beside him as he placed the Golden Heart down onto the fallen rider's chest. _

_There they stood, rider and dragon, for an unknown amount of time, silently keeping their vigil deep into the night as they waited for permission to intrude on the grieving that they wished to never experience._

_The moon was beginning to set, it's dominance of the sky at the beginning of another end when a presence brush against their minds. He opened his tentatively, know through familiarity that it was the mind they were seeking, and, in that moment, fell to his knees._

_Grief, so great and vast that it swallowed him into a deep abyss of darkness, reigned over his mind momentarily before it was removed. Unspoken, undesired, apology traveled through the connection before it broke off completely._

_Eragon stood, knees threatening to fall out from under him in exhaustion before he steadied himself on Saphira's leg. He bent down over the open case and reluctantly lifted the egg from the body. As he turned he felt a sense of finality emit from what he had as he covered it, eyes focusing ahead so that he would not, in weakness, turn and rush back to mourn over the dead shell of the hope he had lost._

Eragon woke, eyes focusing on the roof of the traveling tent he had pitched the night before. He stood and stretched, removing his hand from where it had rested, unnoticed by him, on the hilt of Brisingr throughout the night. He listened, through both psyche and ear, and found that Saphira was still resting. He nodded to himself, glad that she could find herself some rest, and opened the flap of the tent to walk amongst the camp on his own. Blodhgarm was behind him, yes, ever watchful in the shadows, but Eragon did not count his presence. They would only speak if Eragon wished it, and he was certain that such a thing would not be happening during this morning.

It had been two days since they had set out, six since Joed had revealed the tunnel to them, and his nerves had been frayed with the strain of loss, anxiety, and responsibility. He did not understand how he was to carry out the Varden's missions, to overthrow a king with the power of countless dragons. Well, maybe not countless. He and Saphira had been harboring a theory while hoping with all their might that it might not be true. There had been a certain number, one that had caught both of their attentions, one that had been a mystery to everyone else on the council. Most, like Joed, believed that it was a simple play on addition, but the dread that had filled him when he heard the scholar mutter the word had been too much to ignore.

It was absurd, wasn't it? Galbatorix could have never found One-Hundred and Fifty-Seven Eldunari…could he?

- - - -

Roran mounted his steed, the cover of darkness receding above him as he heard the sound of most his fellows following suit behind him. He turned Snowfire around, arms stiff on the reins showing his anxiety and discomfort as he surveyed the camp.

"Good." He muttered to himself, noting how his company had successfully they had hidden any traces of their numbers from view. He wished he knew, like Eragon, how to use magic to erase the traces of the horses, but seeing as he couldn't he was left to merely hope that the many prints would appear as if a horse had been frightened or nervous. Of course, if soldiers were patrolling this area it wouldn't really matter how many they were suspected to be, an attack or confrontation was evident.

Every day brought them closer to Uru'Baen, closer to the inevitable doom that was facing Galbatorix. He almost envied his brother who, in his recognizable state, could not accompany him and his men on this important mission. Eragon and Saphira were currently traveling with the Varden, subtly leaving traces or stray sightings of them in their wake so the Empire would be notified of their general location: away from the Citadel. The plan was to bring the King's focus away from the city so that Roran and his men could, in haste, have a chance of snatching the egg.

The sound of footsteps, too light a graceful to be human, came up beside him and he looked down to the elf. His brother, in a sudden decision, had sent two of his nine guards along with him and the gesture had not been unappreciated. With a sudden revelation he realized that the elves could remove the traces of the horse from the ground and as he turned he saw that they had already done it. Annoyance at himself for forgetting about his guides filed through him as he turned back to address him men.

"Alright men, we should reach the River by midday. Ride!"

He spurred Snowfire on, the nervous horse gladly complying as the other beasts behind him jumped into a quick gallop. The elves ran beside him, their grace and speed slightly unerring him as he struggled to tear his gaze away from them.

It was, in fact mid evening by the time the company reached the water's edge. The horses were tired and lathered with sweat. They had rode feverantly for the last few hours after being forced to take a detour. Empire Soldiers had formed a camp near the area they had planned to pass through. If it wasn't for the fact that one of the elves had run ahead they would have never seen them. Roran had been sure to express his gratitude toward Eragon if he ever got out of this mission alive.

"Stronghammer." The peculiar accent of the elf held his attention as he waited for him to coninue.

"My companion believes he had found the entrance to the cave, it is but a few hundred yards from here."

Roran nodded and motioned for his men to dismount and walk their steeds over to where the other elf was waiting for them. The trek did not take long, but Roran felt that every step was one of his last. When they arrived at the sight Roran found that they description the Joed had given them matched the spot almost exactly and a rush of foreboding purpose flushed through him. This was it, this was where it would all begin.

"We wait for sundown, then we begin."


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi all,**

**I'm excited for this chapter to be done. It's angsty, hopefully, but also shows my weakness. I'm not the best at expression emotions, I have no idea why, but my writing tends to be dry when it comes to that kind of thing.**

**Any suggestions? **

**Anyways, here it is. It's a long one.**

**Hope you enjoy,**

**~Vic**

Memory.

Such a fickle thing, really. One can remember all the wrong things in all the wrong time while what they should be thinking of hides itself away in the dark shadows of the mind. Channon stared at the roof of her home, the thoughts that she should be harboring fleeing in fear from the cavernous grief that consumed her. Grim resolve festered somewhere in the darkness, creating a foundation that she could grasp onto in order to remain sane and functional.

She swooned as she stood, fatigue wrenching her balance away from her before she clutched the wall, brittle fingernails making a thin scratching sound before she steadied herself. She realized that, in her unforgettable grief, she had not eaten since the night before last. Hunger clawed at her stomach and survival instinct sent her into the kitchen, stiff, almost clawed, hands rifling through the organized cupboards. Stale bread, days old, was what she finally brought to her mouth, sharp ridges catching on her chapped lips before she chewed at it ravenously.

She went to the smoke room outside of the house, her vivacity sated fro now by the dry bread as she opened the hatch that would lead her into the dark room. Dried and salted meats hung from the rafters, thin strips progressing to thick chunks, and the thick, homely smell reached her nostrils. The memory of it, of the excitement that her Bomerin had shown when he had first made it, when he took her hand and guided her into the house.

Her face welled with angry tears, a bitter refusal to her control over herself before she slammed the hatch shut, a harsh grunt of frustration ringing out into the grey morning. She grasped the handle to the hatch again, using both hand to raise it up and slam it down.

SLAM

SLAM

SLAM

Anger tore at her as she gave a short yell before leaping back. Her chest rose in feel in deep breaths, as she glared resentfully at the door before her. The wood held firm, showing no signs of its beating other than the obvious wear of age. Resentment for its strength coursed through her, serving as a distraction towards what her true anger was aimed towards. Sweat developed over her skin, arms glistening in the morning light as the chill wind bit into her flesh. Goosebumps riddled her skin, unnoticed as she again began slamming the wooden door.

She was never to bear Bomerin's child.

SLAM

He would never poke fun of her cooking again.

SLAM

She had waited for him in vain.

SLAM

She was a tainted woman.

SLAM

SLAM

SLAM

A widow.

SLAM

Rough hands grabbed at her and she screamed as they pried her hands away form the handle. The door, mocking her, hung open as they dragged her writhing body away from it. Her control had been lost long ago and she kicked, bit, scratched, and damaged anything she could get a hold of as struggled to return to the door. She needed to destroy it; she needed it to be gone. Why didn't they understand that!?

- - - - -

She woke again; hunger tearing at her stomach as she hurriedly jolted from the bed. Grim and dried tears had caked onto her eyelids and lashes, giving her an altogether unclean and unhealthy feeling. She raised her arms to clear them, mind slightly fuzzy as she heard a tinkling sound. She realized, slowly, that it was a bell that had been tied to her wrist. Her arms stung with the effort and, in a moment, she remembered what she had done. She made to look out the window to observe the damage she had done but found that the curtains, which had been part of her dowry, had been deliberately shut.

"Oh good, dear, you're awake."

Channon snapped her attention towards the doorway.

"It's alright, It's only me, dear. You are awake sooner that I had thought, you've gone through quite a lot now haven't you."

She meant not to answer, for addressing her statement was to admit that she was alone, but the warmth in Kipya's voice. Her neighbor had been the one to care for her when she contracted an illness a few months after her husband's leave and she had been sure to socialize with Channon whenever possible..

"Aya, Kipya, I have." She paused, glancing towards the curtain again before she spoke. "Oh, what have I done? What will I do?"

Her neighbor smiled and sat at the edge of the bed. "You nearly took the whole door out, Channon." Her face did not crinkle with concern as she had expected, but cracked into a smile.

"The anger of a woman is dangerous, for it does not come often. But when it finally rears its head it could move mountains. I'm surprised you didn't take down the entire smoke house."

She frowned when Channon did not lighten. Channon could not help but find no humor in the moment. Her eyes had retched themselves from the curtains and now rested on the tan envelope that rested on the drawers beside her bed. She could not tear them away, even to address the kindness of her old friend.

A hand on her shoulder brought her out of her trance. Sorrow and pity bubbled in the eyes that she matched, Her own brown meeting a soft green in the silence of the room.

"My little Stella has cared for your mare. She's quite the tame beast."

Channon knitted her brow in confusion. "How long have I been…" she couldn't find tha right word to describe her condition.

"It has been two days since the messenger brought you that envelope."

Channon was grateful for the word choice and also thankful for the knowledge.

"May I ask the beast's name?"

She was wretched from her thoughts and knitted her brow. Truth be told she hadn't had the chance to think of one."

"I…I don't know." She admitted.

"Well, might I suggest Kuasta?"

"Like the village?"

Kipya nodded her head in agreement.

"You see, my brother lives up there and Stella visited a few months back during the summer. She has shown a strange obsession with it since then, she even knocks on the doorways before entering." Kipya let out a small chortle that was rewarded with a smile from Channon. She knew of the strange traditions that resided in the area. "Well, Kuasta, Excuse me, your mare, was quite skittish when we first went in to tend on her, but calmed almost automatically when Stella knocked on the stable entrance. She's responded quite well to the name…"

Kipya trailed off, almost sheepishly, an allowed Channon to mull over the information.

"Kuasta seems quite fitting, in fact, it seems almost perfect. I bought the beast on a whim and a suspicion, it seems I was correct in my prediction." She turned her head away, hiding the shame of her tears before she controlled herself.

She caught herself staring at the envelope again and, as she did so, a grim resolve crept over her. She was to leave, take her mare, Kuasta, with her and flee to the Varden where she would force herself upon them. Just as Kipya said, the anger of a woman was meant to be feared and she wished to send fear deep into the dead, blackened heart of the King who had sent her Bomerin into his deathbed. The unworthy scum would face her wrath, even if her efforts be the equivalent to a pinprick on the finger of a giant, she would be sure to bring him any means of pain that she could muster.

She would bring peace to her husband's soul.

Wreak her revenge.

"Thank you, Kipya." She stated as she turned back to the woman who had nursed her and been her friend. "You not only care for me, but bring a light into the blackness that had flooded me. Thank your Stella for me, she has brought me happiness and my mare a name."

Gratitude flooded her eyes as Kipya stood, noticing and obeying the clear, polite dismissal. Kipya lingered into the doorway, halting momentarily as she gazed into the once warm eyes that she had known. There was a new sense to them, a gripping change that rang of purpose and fate. The soft, warm brown that had made contact with her mere days before were laced with a poisonous, emerald green that snaked through the brown like thorny vines.

- - - - -

"_Channon, please, for me?"_

_She sighed, huffily complying and placing the dagger on her hip like he instructed. _

"_I'll be fine Bomerin, nothing ill will befall me in a town like Brethvic, you know this."_

_He gave her a nervous smile and she softened and reached a hand up to rest on his bearded cheek._

"_But I am thankful for your concern. It is I who needs to worry for you." She pointed out. She was rewarded with a scowl that, no doubt, matched the one she had been wearing moments before. _

"_You worry to much, I am the blacksmith, no ill will befall the man who makes the swords! I am not to fight!"_

_What he said was true, but she also knew that when more men were needed to fight the strength that a blacksmith carried would not go unnoticed._

"_As for you, there is a pack under the stair that leads to the storage." He held up a hand as she meant to intervene. "It has been packed with imperishable essentials. If you ever need to flee, just listen, take it and pack it with enough food. Belatona is a two day ride from here, just find a steed and head south, there are no rivers or mountains to bar your way."_

_She nodded, noting the worry and concern in his eyes before standing up on tiptoe to kiss his feathered cheek._

If only she knew then what she did now, she would have forced him down and bolted him to the bed, never allowing him to leave off onto a death mission. Channon, who had ignored the pack before, had gone down into the storage to retrieve it shortly after Kipya's withdrawal. She had found two thick blankets, garlic, strawberry, and blackberry preserves, and box of tinder, flint, long leather straps, a thin, light pot, and a long hunting knife that she knew to have been her father-in-laws. The sharpened blade was dull silver in the dim of the storage basement and, as she sheathed it, she turned it in her hands. She used a few of the straps to form a makeshift belt that she then used to fasten the weapon to her hip like he had showed her those many months ago.

She knew that, in her hands, the knife was virtually useless, but felt that she was serving his memory by complying with his instruction. She carried the pack up the stairs and began packing the other things she had prepared in the last hour. She tossed the blankets into her bedroom, not needed the extra that she had prepared and then preceded to fill the pack with some of the dried meat from the smoke house. It had been a challenge to go out there, to near the place of insanity, but the need to escape from this place, to seek revenge had outweighed her fear. Of course, this did not prevent her from shuddering as her splintered hands grasped the handle once more.

Salts, stale bread, and dried meat were all she needed to survive the two days that would carry her into the rest of her life. As she made to leave the house a tingling feeling of forgetfulness filled her, and she couldn't help but pause. She was drawn to her room where she immediately turned her gaze to face the haunting envelope. She snatched it from the dresser, not even remembering crossing the bedroom to retrieve it, and stood there for quite a time.

She balanced in the edge of a decision, but, in the end, found that she could not bring herself to open it. She took it with her, however, finding herself unable to part with it as she tucked it neatly into one of the blankets. She tied the top off, tears brimming her eyes before she angrily swiped them from her face. She would not be weak, would not submit herself to the desire to crumble onto a heap and roll into a bal on the hard, wooden floor.

The sun was setting when she slipped out the back door of what used to be her home. She rushed to the stable and opened the hatch quietly. She heard the distant sounds of dishes being washed waft from the house next to hers and she realized, with a pang, what exactly she was leaving. The mare peered at her from the stale, curiously gazing at Channon as who had paused, body rigid and stiff as she listened.

A quick sigh brought her gaze to the mare and she used the distraction to carry herself forward. She hurriedly tacked the horse, buckling her cheap saddle into place before cringing. The rough, worn leather would not feel good on her thighs and she could only imagine the blisters her legs would get from the unaccustomed friction that riding caused.

A crow cawed in the woods behind her, soon followed by the loud racket of an entire murder of the black winged creatures as they took to the sky.

"Are you ready Kuasta? Now is the time I leave all this behind to be alone, alone with my horse and my grief."


	7. Chapter 7

**So, wow. Hey guys, so I have to admit that I'd totally forgotten about this until someone randomly favorited it a few days ago. Thanks Adurna, you saved the FanFic! Well, hopefully at least.**

**I plan on having another chapter up within the week. It's good to be back!**

**~Vic**

Roran checked his things once again, noting the strange way his fingers seemed to push themselves away from the fabric of his pack. It felt as if an invisible force was propelling the course fabric away from his fingers as he went to touch it, finding something about him disgusting or unholy. His confusion and frustration must have been evident on his face, for one of the elves softly approached, her voice, like the tinkling of bells merging with a soft, warm wind, cut through the grim silence of his men.

"We have spelled them to repel water, Roran Stronghammer." He glanced from the elf to his men who, upon hearing this, had automatically cleaned the worry from their faces. He obviously had not been the only one to be perturbed.

"Oh, well please be sure to communicate with us next time." He paused, having expected some kind of response, and took a good, scrutinizing look at the elf's face. She hadn't even flinched at his rudeness.

"…and thank you."

The elf nodded curtly and turned to walk away, leaving Roran with his thoughts for the time being.

An hour's time had passed, the sun having set behind the horizon to leave them with a thin, sliver of the moon. He, his men, and one of the elves were gathered around the river's edge, awaiting the return of the expressionless she-elf he had been speaking with earlier. A splash rang through the air and all the humans of the company flinched.

"Bazelti has found the entrance." The elf murmured and the company, with Roran leading, made way to the elf that had made the splash in the distance. Her long silver hair billowed and swayed around her in the water as she tread softly, creating no ripples or waves in the water's surface as she did so. Roran was forced to think of Katrina, for if he did not already have his love the inhuman beauty of her face would have spelled him to her.

"The tunnel is but a few strokes underneath." She stated in his tantalizing voice. "Wards have been placed," She watched as some of the men around Roran shrunk in defeat, "But I am led to believe that I have dispelled all of those that apply to our company.

"We must trust in your judgment." Roran said begrudgingly, he hated to admit this. "For I have no knowledge in the study of magic."

By unspoken command the soldiers around him began to prepare for their dive. They stripped to their under things, any embarrassment of the female elf was unseen by this display, and guided their horses to where they would stay with the two soldiers that had been selected to be left behind. An air of purpose flooded the company as the faces that had been set with grim determination began to bubble with excitement and the thrill that comes before every battle. He felt anticipation bubbling in his stomach, the fact that this was truly happening finally revealing itself to him.

Excitement, much stronger than anticipation, coursed through him. He felt powerful, as if the very king himself would be no match for him and his hammer. A smile, one that he wore only before battle, ravaged itself across his face. Wicked lines changed his features drastically as he turned to nod at the elf beside him.

With a quick leap he was headed towards the water, face slamming into the surface as he tucked his arms beside him. Cold, so intense and overpowering, flooded his senses, stabbing at his every pore as he scrambled to reach the surface again. When he emerged he gasped in the air, chilled by the river, and heard a soft, sweet laugh.

"Roran Stronghammer," Bazelti managed through her suppressed mirth. "You have obviously have never been trained in the grace of the swim."

Roran's cheeks would have flushed, had they not already been reddened by the impact of his face on the surface of the water. The elf murmured something he could not hear, save that it rang with a sense of truth and clarity, before she then called up to the men on the shore. "When you leap, hold your arms above you."

The men, who only wished to please the fair-haired she-elf, nodded and attempted to comply with her instructions. The outcome of their attempt probably left them in less pain than Roran, but the noise of their blundering and splashing was loud enough to cause Roran to cringe. Every shadow was sure to hold soldiers, soldiers who would wait to shoot until all of them were unprotected and treading like… well, like sitting ducks.

Once they were all in the water all eyes turned back to Roran who, not knowing where the actual cave was, then turned to Bazelti.

"The tunnel is directly underneath us, I will show it to you." She paused and glanced up to the shore. "But is Nuatamin not accompanying us?"

"Still your worried heart Bazelti, I will follow once I see that you all are safe." The elf, who had remained stationed at the shore, replied as he glanced away from the horizon.

Bazelti cast him a warning glance but then softened as they shared the glance that only love could harbor. Roran found himself surging with jealousy and turned away, disgusted with himself. His love was to another woman, another woman who was the fairest of his race, one that had stolen his heart before he had become the figure and man he was now. Katrina was his life, she carried his child, his flesh and bone, and held strong where others faltered. He mustn't look at this elf woman.

She murmured something again and bowed her head and Roran, glancing towards the shore, saw that he returned the gesture.

"Come humans" She paused, a look of contemplation clear on her face, "My apologies,"

She stated after a moment's silence, the churning of limbs sent ripples and clouts of water to disturb the surface of the River, the thin sliver of moon dancing along the dark depths. Roran turned to see that she was meaning to continue.

"Bazelti, with all respects." He began, treading carefully around the elf. "May we continue this after we have dried and touched down onto earth once again?"

"Of course, Stronghammer."

He flushed, thanking the gods for the cover of darkness so that he did not expose his weakness to his men.

"I must warn you…. Men of the Varden." Roran was surprised by her choice of words but shunned that feeling to listen to her words, the silence was only interrupted by the quiet gurgling of water that his men caused. "The entrance does not appear to be as such. It has been spelled to appear just as the rest of the river bottom, but do not be fooled. Trickery prevents those who do not know of its presence from entering it. I have told you it is there, so now you know of it, but if there is any doubt of its presence in your mind, you will not be able to pass through, and I fear that Dark Magic may take you."

A chill, not caused by the cold, passed through Roran and his men collectively at her words and, with its strength, left them silent.

"We understand, Bazelti. Those who do not have my permission to retreat to the shore, I cannot and will not ask my men to deal with Dark Magic, or any magic for that matter, if they do not wish to."

He waited silently to see if any would retreat to the dryness, but felt a smile touch his face as they stayed in their place.

"You are brave men," She commented, almost off handedly, "Now we dive, you must follow the light, for I will spell one that will gleam through the darkness of the Ramr."

And with that she dove, disappearing beneath the surface before a gleaming, purple-tinted light glinted up at them from underneath. Roran submerged himself after taking a great breath, seeing his men follow suit behind him as he began to paddle his way over to Bazelti. Strange creatures appeared in everything as he swam, rocks transformed into serpents and Vines into tentacled legends that had haunted his childhood nightmares. He continued on his path, fear struggling to grab hold of him.

It only took moments for his lungs to begin to burn, for the tickling desire to breath began to conquer his every movement. His body began to fight him, wishing to float up to the blessed surface. Just as he began to faltered, mind blotted out by the will to survive, water soon left his face, the pressure he hadn't noticed before vanishing as he took a startled breath in surprise. He was pleasantly surprised to find that air flooded his lungs. Turning to look at his men, he found that they sported similar commodities.

"_Forgive me, Stronghammer, I should have remembered before."_

Roran was startled to feel the vast presence of her mind, to feel their conscious touch and collide for a moment before she withdrew. It was no wonder Eragon took fancy to Arya, for the beauty and song of an elf's mind could trap the strongest of men. The thought of Katrina ran through his mind and her smile, brought him back to his senses, to his pumping limbs. The purple light seemed faded to him and he realized that he hadn't been swimming for a few seconds; Bazelti had gained some space ahead of him.

A couple of his men were gulping experimentally behind him and he motioned for haste, turning to follow the retreating light ahead of him so as to provide an example. They quickened their pace behind him. Roran himself was focusing intently on the light ahead of him; eyes tracing its every direction as he propelled himself through the water. He saw it turn a sharp corner and he followed, nearly running into Bazelti as he did so.

She held up a stilling hand as they waited for the rest of his men to filter through the inky blackness, the magic light hovering between Roran and the Elf. Finally, Nuatamin followed suit, swimming faster than he could have expected from a land creature.

Vast, oppressive silence floated among them as they waited for the elf to speak.

"_The entrance is directly behind me." _She projected this statement into their minds, the eerie, mauve lighting of the circle of men illuminating the flinches of fear that this process created. _"I will cross the border first while Nuatamin waits to guide you through."_

Nuatamin nodded in agreement before continuing. "_And remember, you must believe that you are crossing into a tunnel, if not, I fear your lives will be extinguished and the King notified of our presence." _Many nervous glances followed this statement, but the elves simply ignored it. Bazelti nodded to Roran, who returned the gesture, and briskly turned to the enchanted wall behind her. If he had blinked, Roran wouldn't have noticed the eerie way she drifted through what appeared to be solid stone. He did not trust himself to wait after the sight, and immediately charged the wall.


	8. Chapter 8

**Here's the next chapter, and within the week, just like I promised!**

**I hope this suffices for now, I plan on having Roran's Adventure play out mostly for the next few chapters, but felt I needed to get Channon out of the way first. **

**Hope you enjoyed!**

**~Vic**

Roran didn't realize that he had shouted until he could hear himself again, the low, primal roar echoing off of the stonewalls of the passage. He stopped himself, catching his breath again as the adrenaline surged through his veins. He'd done this once before, in the caves fo the Ra'zac, but he found that the second time had frightened him even more. With Eragon, he hadn't known what was going on, sure, but Roran had known that at any moment, Dark Magic could have taken him, that his life could have been snatched away in a second. Knowing that was much, [i]much[/i], worse.

He only had a few seconds to catch his breath before he darted out of the way from one of his men. His third in command, Jeremiah, sputtered as he landed, arms and legs flailing, and landed a kick straight onto Roran's calf. Roran flinched, but stood quickly so as to avoid this happening again, turning and feeling his face freeze in a combination of shock and embarrassment as he found Bazelti stifling laughter. Even through her palm it was almost palpable, and, had he been less on edge, Roran had no doubt that he would have joined her. The attitude turned somber; however, as Nuatamin broke through the barrier, his landing elegant and on his feet. Roran only counted thirty-one men, which meant that seven hadn't passed through the wall. His comrades slowly began to realize this too, and Roran saw insatiable fear begin to creep into their eyes.

"Alright." He turned to the elf couple matter-of-factly, face betraying nothing of his anxiety as he did so. "What must we do now?"

Bazelti nodded to him before she spoke,

"We walk."

The trip with the Varden had been quite uneventful, which had been a welcome change for Eragon and Saphira, seeing as the latter was concerned for her rider whom had taken on the habit of pouring himself into his task, thus separating himself from the rest of the encampment.

Angela had taken note of this, had given him his period of grievances, and now knew that enough was enough. She walked through the encampment with purpose, her long hair tied back in a knot at the base of her neck so as to stay out of her face. She enjoyed the company of Saphira well enough, but Angela knew that to be careful around any powerful creature was to be intelligent around and powerful creature.

So her hair was back and out of her eyes.

She paused in her gait, however; as a familiar shape twined itself through her legs. She cast an incredulous look down to the werecat, wrinkles forming at the edge of her eyes as she smiled down at him.

"Solembum." He did not spare her a glance as he took his strides with hers, his face pointedly away from hers as they walked. Her lips quirked in surprise, "How nice of you to join me, I had thought you were too tired from out travels to Belatona." The Werecat deigned to cast a scrupulous glance her way, his unwavering, green stare seeming to pierce through her.

She shrugged it off, being used to his theatrics and began to walk again. "Are you just going to sit there, are you coming with….me?" She hesitated on the last word, having turned to find the cat staring avidly at the tree-line. She waited for him to move, knowing that it could either be of great importance, or of something as menial as rabbit, but if it proved to be the former, Angela knew she had to be there for it.

The Werecat's lips curled up into a smile, his sharp canines poking from beneath them before he turned towards her, mischievous glint evident in his eyes before he flashed away, skirting quickly into the brush. She cursed under her breath and followed, feeling her muscles begin to thrum with excitement. Oh, how she loved interesting things.

And this scene could be qualified as interesting…she guessed.

A nervous horse, a simple, light bay mare, was restlessly jockeying from side to side, eyes rolling in her head as Solembum licked himself clean under a tree. Angela laughed at the sight of him, all wound up with his hair poofed up, was too much for her to take in without mirth. "You should have watched the froth." She managed as he cast her a scathing look.

The horse definitely needed to be tended to, the poor beast, so she forced herself into seriousness as she stepped forward, arms outstretched calmly as she approached. She took note of the white cowlick that blossomed between the mare's eyes as the poor beast jerked back in fear. "Mor'ranr" she whispered softly, meaning 'peace' in the ancient language. "Mor'ranr… eka weohnata néiat haina ono." The mare calmed, believing her in her promise to bring no harm onto it, and allowed her to place a calming palm on that very same cowlick. Warm licks tickled her neck as the beast softly tugged at her bun, loosening a few strands as she did so.

Then, much to her surprise, Solembum leapt from his spot, the horse slather sufficiently removed from him pelt, and sank down to a crouch on the beasts' back. Angela who had merely thought it ill fate that a saddled horse had lost it's rider, now took note of the werecat's placement and narrowed her eyes. There was a hand tied into her mane, the limp fingers curled slightly to suggest that the owner had fallen asleep while clutching the mare's hair. Angela hurried to the other side of the creature, strength that was hidden behind her appearance serving her well as she hoisted the limp form up so as to untie the loop that held her forearm to the saddle. "You know," she hissed after laying the obviously feminine form onto the ground. "In your human form you could have helped me."

Solembum narrowed his eyes before leaping from the horse. "Ah, I knew you could do it." He mumbled before settling down on the woman's chest, "Besides, it would have frightened the stupid creature." He said, contemptuously nodding towards the horse that, having been left to her own devices, was beginning to grow skittish again. Angela sighed and glanced down at the woman. She seemed so…normal... but Angela would never be caught judging a book by the cover, never in a thousand lifetimes, and the mere presence of the werecat would have been enough to convince the witch that she needed to pay attention to this woman, let alone the fact that he was currently resting on her chest, claws softly kneading the torn fabric of her overcoat.

Angela picked her up swiftly, following Solembum through the woods and towards the back entrance of her tent, the horse following behind her meekly. For some reason, both she and the werecat did not want the stranger to be seen, not yet anyways. As she lay the limp figure down on her cot, the woman's face crinkled slightly and a hushed, yet urgent, whisper left her thin lips. "Wolves…" Angela shushed her gently before rising and gathering ingredients for a healing balm, having taken note of the numerous scratches and abrasions on the woman's legs. She paused a moment, noting the curious angle of her left wrist, and clucked her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Looks like a brace would be in order as well.

Solembum nestled under the cot, his tail brushing her uninjured hand that hung from the cot as he did so.

"Wolves…" she rasped one final time, before settling back into fitful sleep.

**This was my first portrayal of Angela, hopefully it wasn't a complete failure. **

**Any thoughts or suggestions? **

**Thanks again for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 

Elves, Eggs, and Enchantments

And so they walked, the darkness only interrupted by the hovering, mauve light, which hung over the procession, the blackness surging back into the tunnel after they had passed. Roran counted the steps, tens quickly melting into hundreds as his mind struggled to race ahead of him. He knew naught what this journey would bring, success, failure, painful death, dead ends, traps, and he hated it. Frustration battled with anticipation as the gentle click of armor and weapons die dully in the air.

If he hadn't been so gracious for air in his first moments, Roran had no doubt that the thickness of the cave would have been noticed sooner. But now that he had been breathing for a while, he could feel the air, dank and damp, cloying in his lungs as he walked. He could sense the uneasiness of his men too, and was not surprised to feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise stiffly.

"It's not what's in the cave," Bazelti stated, blue-black eyes scrutinizing as she gazed upward. She closed her eyes, shivering slightly but never breaking her pace as she did so. "We're close, Stronghammer. Joed warned me of this." Roran felt her watching his face for any reaction and wrestled the flash of indignation away from his face. He knew that he didn't need to, that somehow the elf knew how he would react. "Go on." He stated, noting his men's apt expressions as they waited for her to continue. "He said that the tunnel goes directly under a graveyard…one that is believed to house the spirits of his allies." Roran himself shuddered, he knew of the tales that warned against such a blatant display of disrespect, but something told him that this was no accident.

"Do you believe in spirits?" he stated slowly, stopping abruptly.

"Yes, there are spells that can bind someone to a body….Stronghammer" Nuatamin stated, stopping beside him to follow his gaze out into the darkness ahead of them.

"If they are loyal to the King," the words seemed to crackled in the air, particularly the last one, "then we want nothing to do with them. Quick, does anyone have sage?"

After much salvaging, there was only a jar of garlic preserves that could enable them passage. So, smelling of raw garlic, the assembly continued on in he tunnel, the spread cracking as it dried on their faces. Roran fought to remain stoic, and nearly failed when a high keen sliced through the air behind them, sending the back ranks jumping out of line as they scrambled away from it. Other than that; however, the dead did not disturb them and they were only a hundred or so feet from where the entrance was hypothesized to be.

"Do you remember the plan?" an elf hissed in his ear, he didn't know which one for he couldn't take his eyes off of the approaching light. "Yes, of course." He whispered back, they both whisked past him and he quickened his pace to see that the four soldiers stationed at the exit were staring back at him. He twitched involuntarily, forgetting the magic barrier that prevented them from seeing naught but a wall, and motioned for his men to halt as the elves drew their weapons beside him. They breathed in unison, matching each other to the millisecond before they silently crept through the wall.

Once they cleared the magic, they were moving faster than he could have imagined, one imbedding a dagger in the first guard's chin, angled upwards towards the brain, while the other lopped another's head off in one clean strike. They were on the others before the men could realize what had hit their comrades, trading roles as hey dealt the deathblows with ease. Roran shuddered as they halted, facing each other and barely even breathing hard as they maintained their effortless breaths in unison.

"You may enter, Humans." Bazelti stated, breaking the connection first and turning towards the exit of the cave. He turned briefly towards his men, noting their pallid appearances , and offered a haughty smile at them, attempting to break the mood. "At least they're on our side, eh?" There were a couple nervous chuckles, but the sense of foreboding and awe could not be shaken. Roran charged the wall, making sure to be silent this time, and managed to land on his feet. He stepped out of the way for his men, forgetting to watch his step as he dipped his left foot into the pooling blood of the Empire Guards. He didn't shudder however, for he knew death too well for such things, and merely removed his boot from the crimson puddle.

He then turned in complete circles, taking in the room before him with scrutiny. There were seven doors, all ornately carved with ancient, wicked, symbols that made his skin crawl as he looked at them. The thought of entering any of those rooms set him on edge, but he set that aside. There was a gap between two doors, which he presumed was the secret entrance to the tunnel, and the ceiling was low and dome shaped, there was no where to hide/ "Well…" he whispered hoarsely, his low voice cracking with the effort of remaining as silent as possible, "What do we do now?"

"Bazelti and I will unlock the doors with magic…"Nautamin stated blandly, eyes never leaving the first door they'd chosen to crack, "While you must wait for us… I recommend you post a lookout while the rest of you sleep. We will wake you when you're needed."

Roran watched as his men settled in, taking the first watch himself so as to help ease their minds. He didn't blame them for not trusting the elves after what they'd just witnessed. Roran doubted he could have slept knowing they were there…and so he stood, keeping vigil over the staircase that lay directly aligned with the secret exit, the scent of blood a constant tang on his tongue.

He could hear sharp intakes of breath behind him, and the occasional mumble, but he did not turn from his post. Magic was not for him to meddle in…at least…not yet. He subconsciously rubbed the stone in his breeches pocket. There was a soft click behind him and he jumped visibly, turning to the elves that smiled in victory. Roran had only been there for a quarter hour; half of his men hadn't even fallen asleep yet. "I do not sense any guards in the room ahead…. I will scout it out myself." Bazelti murmured before dashing ahead.

She returned shortly, frustration, for once, evident on her features as she shook her head. It was merely a library; she had found naught but the books that the King had supposedly forbidden to exist. Save for himself, it seemed.

"Sleep, Stronghammer." Bazelti sighed. "I fear we will be at this for a long while, and you will need your rest."

It felt as if a few mere seconds had passed when he found himself gently shaken awake. His eyes flashed open, and he went to grasp his hammer. Panic flared in him as a hand kept him from reaching it, and his eyes widened momentarily before his brain sluggishly caught up with the events that had passed in the last few days. Elves, Eggs, and Enchantments He relaxed and felt the hand release his wrist, the grasp had been firm, but gentle, and it reminded him of his beloved Katrina. Love filled him as he stretched his limbs, her face swimming sweetly in his mind, their child's heartbeat echoing in his ears as he strapped his metal vambraces and armor onto his person. He would make it out, for them, for his heart and his very blood.

His men settled into formation in front of the fifth door, the first four hanging askew on their hinges, the magic needed to reapply the lock too valuable to waste. He nodded towards Bazelti, who returned the gesture, and swept into the doorway after her. He climbed fifty steps, the steel tipping of his boots taking all of his concentration to stifle as he did so, and mentally preparing himself for what he had to do. Killing a fellow man was never easy, for the mind at least, but he would do it, he would sacrifice his soul for his family, there was no other option.

His pulse quickened as voices echoed through the stairwell, the silent tinkle of mail hauberks on scabbards wafting through the tunnel. With a nod of his head, he signaled his men to charge, turning the final corner with a look of ferocity etched into his features.

All for Katrina. All for their unborn child.

Duty never crossed his mind.


	10. Chapter 10

**I have to warn you, this one is slightly bloody and…well disturbing. For some, it's probably nothing compared to real gore, but I felt the need to warm you none-the-less.**

**Hope you enjoy, I'm very proud of this one!**

**~Vic**

Chapter 10

Roran had only a glance of a surprised face before he smashed into a guard, his twenty-nine companions shocked and scrambling to gather themselves against the vicious attack. Roran broke the soldier neck, feeling the man spasm before collapsing at his feet. Bazelti's knife flashed crimson, droplets smattering the walls as they cascaded from her blade. Roran unsheathed his knife, the close quarters and will for silence rendering his hammer useless as he parried a sword, just barely managing to unsheath his other dagger as he attempted to twist the rapier from the soldier's grasp. He swung with his other arm, battering the hilt of the blade down on his opponent's neck and using the distraction to slice the young man's throat. Blood spattered onto is shirt, the unprotected length of his upper arm clinging to the damp fabric as he continued on. His third opponent was more cautious, the skirmishes around him proving to be less of a distraction to this obvious veteran.

Roran slashed forward, blocked by a well-placed parry, and withdrew quickly from the sword as it began to swing towards him. He sucked in his stomach, feeling the blade slice through the air just a hairsbreadth away from his bellybutton before leaping forward, planting a blade sickeningly deep into the narrow slit for the soldier's sight in his helmet. The bloody skirmish was finished, his own opponent sinking to the floor as the last two Empire Guards fell beneath their opponents. Four of his men had perished, and he took a moment to mourn them, sheathing his weapons as he did so, before glancing towards the elves. They both were unscathed and were now focusing on the second door that the guards had been blocking.

He too a step towards his second in command, Jeremiah, and grimaced as he sank to his knees, a cut to the side evident in the crimson stain that seeped into the cloth too quickly for comfort. "Captain..." he croaked, but he was too late. A fallen enemy leapt forward, digging his blade deep into Roran's right calf. He suppressed a roar, planting a solid punch on the man's throat and then another to his chest. Roran hit a past wound, feeling the blood squelch beneath his closed fist, and grimaced as the man collapsed. He gurgled, but smiled up at him from the floor. "You'll never get what lies inside." His voice was sickening, his deep tone mingling with the bubbling of blood deep in his lungs, "No man can step foot inside, save the one _it _was meant for!" Roran unsheathed his dagger again and sliced the man's throat, anger mingling with pity as he watched the light fade from the man's eyes before him. Ah, he was so stupid, letting his guard down like that!" One of his men approached determedly. "Let me get that for you, sir." He stated, kneeling to wrench the knife from Roran's calf with a practiced hand. Roran bit into his hand, suppressing his yell of pain, and allowed himself to be bandaged. His other man had been blessedly unscathed, save a few bruises and nicks, and were set to the task of dragging the bodies down to block the stairway parallel to the cave's exit.

"What if that man spoke the truth?" He growled through the pain towards the elves. Nuatamin remained focused on the door while Bazelti turned to him, a look of fatigue flashing in her eyes before she controlled herself and spoke. "I am neither human nor man." She whispered, before turning back to the door. Roran settled himself down to wait, his men filtering back into the room as they waited, bone weary and battered from the short skirmish, but not tired enough to relax. The energy was thick enough to cut with a knife. That was well enough, seeing as they had no idea if or when more troops would arrive.

A soft click echoed from the door a good deal later, all heads of the company snapping towards the sound in minor alarm before dutifully standing at the ready. The elves stood from their crouches, giving no notion if they were sore from their vigilant stillness, and opened the door a crack.

"DOWN!" Roran roared as the elves flung themselves to the ground before he could even utter the command. He dropped, body thudding to the stone ground, and a jet of flame, so intense and sweltering that his muscles began to squeeze and contract, jetted above him. He felt his hair curling as his lungs yearned for oxygen, the flames eating away at everything in the room, even the very air. He didn't think he could hold his breath much longer, bear the pain of his skin blistering in the heat, when it stopped. Roran tentatively got to his feet, his legs shaking with the effort as he sucked precious air into his lungs. His seared hair was blown by the rush of oxygen that swept up from the staircase, the coolness of it wafting against his back.

"It was so cleverly concealed…" Bazelti looked shaken, Nuatamin carefully resting a hand on her shoulder as she took in a few shuddering breaths closing her eyes as she did so. Roran turned away in respect and to take in the damage. He felt as if someone had landed a blow to his gut. Sucking in his gut, he took note of how many rose.

Nine.

The fire had consumed eighteen of his men.

Eighteen.

He staggered to his knees; the puncture wound and blisteres searing as he did so. The pain helped to steady his brain and when he stood again, he felt himself under control.

"We'll have to hurry, Stronghammer!" Bazelti urged him. "No doubt the surge of air has alerted the King's men to our presence!"

Roran snapped himself alert and so did his men around him, their shirts and breeches burned off and disheveled. "I will go." Roran stated, feeling this was the obvious thing to happen. He glanced into the room, the hard green egg mounted on a red pedestal, illuminated by the flickering light of the torches. His breath caught in his throat, the light green veins of the shell just as faintly beautiful as Saphira's egg had been.

"No, Stronghammer, you mean to much to Eragon Shadeslayer!" Bazelti spoke and Nuatamin's eyes flashed, whether in agreement or not, Roran could not say, but there had been obvious emotion in his gaze. "I will go, I am no man." She was proud, and as she stood her charred hair glittered in the purple light that had somehow managed to stay alight through the flame, and quickly bent to kiss Nuatamin.

Roran's heart hammered in his throat as he watched the elf collect himself, Nuatamin's carriage strong and proud as he watched his love take that first step over the threshold of the room. The first step made contact with the red floor and nothing happened, the elf did not relax however, but took the second step into the room just as apprehensively. Her body turned rigid all at once, a malevolent wind stirring her hair wildly for a few second before she dropped, the blood drained from her already pale face. She teetered as she fell, the fulcrum of her body serving as it would a child's seesaw, rocking back and forth as Nuatamin uttered a choked cry.

Roran was mortified as he watched the rigid form relax, the grips of death taking over after the killing spell released its victim. When he turned to Nuatamin, the only sign of his grief was the wetness that had formed on the outer rim of his deep-set eyes. The purple light had been extinguished along with its caster, but the many torches that illuminated the egg room had evaded the darkness. "I will follow her…" He swallowed his grief. "By stepping not on the floor, but on her body. If I can step two feet onto her, then I believe I can reach the egg." Roran only nodded, his innards churning at the thought. If that had been Katrina…he didn't think that he could do what Nuatamin was about to attempt.

The elf bent down a moment, touching his brow to the cold stone of the guard chamber. "Forgive me, my love." He murmured before he rose, carefully placing is weight onto her body. Roran felt nauseous as he watched her limp body cushion his feet. Nuatamin did not wimper or tally, merely placed his second foot down resolutely.

Nothing happened.

Roran heard the collective sights of his men behind him, wishing her could have shared their release, but something boded ill with him, and he could tell by the look in the elf's eyes that he wasn't the only one. Nuatamin took a few more steps before settling on her upper back. It was then that Roran realized the elf could not reach from his morbid perch. He did not cast a glance backwards, but merely stretched his leg out as far as he could, and placed it ever so carefully onto the floor. He stretched out as far as he could go, lithely balancing on one foot all the while, and slowly reached for the egg.

"Take it and run!" he yelled behind before retching the shell from the pedestal. The very same wind blew around his face, but the elf spun himself around in that split second so that he landed flat on his back, his body rocked just as his love's had, and Roran flinched as the second body relaxed into death.

He spun around, however; as distant shouts reached his ears.

They were coming.

"Guard the entrance to the bottom chamber!" He ordered his men, his heart swelled at the determination that anchored their gazes. Even in such pain and suffering, they could be summoned to duty. I will try to do this as fast as I can…if I can." He cast a surreptitious glance behind him before releasing them. "Go, and man…" he paused. "IF you hear me scream…run like mad."

The nodded, a few of them saluting in earnest before taking off down the stair. Roran silently hoped that they'd been efficient in stacking the bodies of the slain in the doorway, it would give him precious time…time that he desperately needed.

He turned back to the Egg Room, setting his mind to his morbid task, and took five deep breaths.

He could do this.

For Katrina.

For his child.

He stepped onto the elf, flinching as he foot sank into her flesh.

Once again, and again, and again.

He had reached her neck, not trusting himself to stand on her head without retching, and gathered himself for the leap. He would have to jump from one to the other, maintaining his balance as he did so. If they had given their lives for this egg, he could muster the balance to do this. He willed himself to keep his eyes open, and jumped.

He landed wobbly, tottering back and forth with his arms out in order to steady himself. It took precious seconds, but he managed, taking two more steps over to the egg that, even in death, Nuatamin clutched earnestly. He eased it from the dead elf's grip, thanking any God that would listen that the elf's eyes were closed, and then turned to the doorway. He had half expected to see Galbatorix himself, but couldn't help but feel slightly relieved by the empty chamber that he gazed out into, it's charred walls soothing him momentarily before he gathered his composure again. The second leap was harder, his arms being used to hold the large egg instead of for balance. He nearly lost all control, but somehow managed to straighten his back just in time, running over poor Bazelti and leaping onto the stone floor.

He did not allow himself to break, the once distant shouts now clear and angry as they echoed up from the lower chamber. He sprinted, clutching the emerald egg close to him as he did so.

"Retreat! Retreat!" He roared as he cleared the last four steps with a leap, his punctured legs collapsing under him for a moment before he regained his footing. He leapt through the concealed wall, thanking the gods for the fact that the wall of Empire men hadn't been broken down yet. Mayhap they could flee without a chase.

His nine remaining men soon followed him, their gaze flicking from Roran's face to the egg he clutched in his arms.

"What now, Captain?" the youngest asked in earnest. The need in his voice, the fear, snapped Roran back into the present. "Now?" he repeated, what he was about to say send a pang of grief through his chest,

"Now, we run!"


End file.
